Wilderness Double Edition #10

by David Robbins

  “Where is the Blanket Chief’s camp?” Whirlwind Hawk wanted to know.

  “On the moon.”

  “We will find out in time. You might as well tell us now.”

  “And deprive you of all that hard work?” Shakespeare forced a laugh. “I hope you do find him. The Blanket Chief is smarter than I am. He will not fall for the same trick. Your bones will be left for the vultures to pick clean.”

  “You are a fool, old one.”

  “And you are a lying pile of buffalo droppings.”

  Whirlwind Hawk flashed his arm downward. The warriors charged, coming from every direction, too many for any one man to withstand no matter how strong or crafty or slippery he might be. Shakespeare was literally buried under bronzed bodies.

  Nate King saw and tried to stand, to go to his mentor said. His wrists were tied behind his back, but his legs were free. He was halfway erect when the sharp tip of a lance jabbed into his side. The muscular Crow beside him grunted and gestured for him to sit back down.

  Resentment coursing red hot through his veins, Nate was on the verge of lashing out when he realized he would be endangering himself needlessly. It was too late to help Shakespeare, who was being trussed up. Nate sank to his knees and held his anger in check. He made a mental vow that come what may, he was going to see the Crows pay for their vile deceit.

  The band swiftly prepared to depart. Packs and plews were tied on horses. Nate, Shakespeare, and Tim were hoisted on mounts, each with personal guards who led their animals by the reins. All was in readiness when an argument broke out among the Crows.

  “What is the racket all about?” Nate asked McNair.

  “They're squabbling over which one of them is the biggest jackass,” Shakespeare said, and chuckled. “In all the confusion, the boy vamoosed.”

  Only then did Nate realize Gray Badger was missing. He was glad, for the boy’s sake. Gray Badger couldn’t have much of a father if Two Humps let others hunt the boy down instead of doing it himself.

  There was a delay while the Crows spread into the surrounding forest in search of the runaway. Young Tim Curry watched them go, then slumped in abject misery, certain his end was near. His quest for excitement seemed a deluded craving in light of the harsh reality of wilderness life. He remembered how his family had warned him he would suffer just such a fate if he was foolhardy enough to travel beyond the frontier, remembered laughing at them and assuring them he was capable of dealing with “ignorant heathens and dumb beasts.” Little had he known.

  Within half an hour the warriors returned empty handed. Whirlwind Hawk led the party to a meadow a hundred yards away where the Crows had left their war horses. There the warriors huddled and argued in low tones. Presently half the band was trotting to the northeast with the prisoners while the rest stayed to continue to look for the boy.

  Nate was pleased. Now there were only ten Crows. He had been secretly working at his bounds, alternately straining against them and letting his wrists go limp, and had loosened the loops a little. Not enough to slip free yet, or to seize the reins and ride off. The thought caused a thrill to shoot through him. He didn’t need his hands to ride. A skilled horsemen could control a mount using leg pressure alone. He looked at the warrior leading his horse. The man held the rope lightly, carelessly. It would be child’s play.

  Nate bided his time for over an hour. They had just started down the slope of a jagged mountain after negotiating a high pass when he put his plan into effect. The warrior in front of him went around a large boulder and for a moment was out of sight. The warrior behind him had lagged a dozen yards. There might never be a better opportunity.

  Nate jammed his heels into his horse and the animal took off, racing around the boulder and breaking into a gallop as soon as it was in the clear. He bent low, guiding the sorrel with his knees. He saw the warrior holding the rope twist and try to tighten his grip, but the fleeing horse ripped it loose, tearing off skin in the process.

  Strident yells erupted. Nate angled toward thick timber and reached the tree line as an arrow nipped a branch to his left. Eight of the Crows were in pursuit, two with bows raised. Nate plunged into underbrush, cut to the right, covered fifty yards, then cut to the left, down slope. Low limbs tore at his face, his shoulders. One scratched his cheek, drawing blood. He had to clamp his legs hard against the animal’s sides to keep from being pitched off.

  The Crows were howling like incensed wolves. They had spread out and the fleetest were trying to get ahead of him to cut him off.

  Nate desperately tugged at his bounds. He could only go so fast without his hands. In order to escape he must break free. The rope bit into his flesh, slicing the skin. He felt blood, and smiled grimly. Blood would make his wrists slippery, would hasten his release. He redoubled his efforts.

  A Crow warrior closed rapidly on the right. The man rode a superb paint that skirted trees and leaped logs at breakneck speed. Grinning in anticipation, the warrior hefted a war club, anxious to be the one to bring the white man down.

  Nate was making painful but steady progress on the ropes. He turned his wrists furiously, the loops chafing deeper and deeper, the blood flowing thickly. Suddenly his left wrist jerked loose and he swung both hands in front of him to seize the sorrel’s mane. None too soon.

  The warrior with the war club roared in feral delight as he broke from a thicket not ten yards away. Waving the club overhead, he raced alongside the sorrel.

  Nate ducked under a vicious swing that would have caved in his skull like an overripe gourd. The Crow raised the club for another swing. Shifting, Nate kicked, driving his foot into the man’s chest. The blow sent the warrior flying from the paint; he let out a yip as he collided with a prickly pine.

  Inspiration struck Nate even as the Crow fell. For several fleeting seconds the paint brushed against the sorrel, and in that span he tensed all his limbs and pushed off from the sorrel’s back. The paint began to pull ahead and for a few anxious moments Nate thought he would tumble earthward. Then he came down astride the Crow’s mount, gripped the trailing reins, and applied both heels.

  In a burst of speed the paint streaked past the sorrel. Nate veered to the right to avoid a fir tree. A meadow unfolded before him. He was a third of the way across when two Crows appeared behind him, side by side, one with a bow.

  Nate reined sharply to the left as a glittering shaft sought his back. The arrow missed by yards. Nate reined in the opposite direction and kept on weaving until he regained cover. The Crows gradually lost ground, their inferior mounts unable to sustain the pace.

  Renewed confidence brought a smile to Nate’s lips. He would eventually lose his pursuers, then circle around to pick up the war party’s trail. From there on, he would stalk them until he could free Shakespeare and Curry.

  The timber thinned little by little. More and more boulders dotted the mountainside. Nate wasn’t worried because he was well beyond bow range. The Crows didn’t have a prayer of catching him. Or so he thought until a cliff reared directly ahead.

  Nate slowed, scouring the barrier. It seemed to extend endlessly on either hand. He knew there had to be a break somewhere, so he bore to the left and hugged the base for the next half a mile. Repeatedly he checked his back trail without seeing sign of the Crows. He had about accepted that they had given up when wisps of dust hovering in the afternoon air showed otherwise. They were five or six hundred yards off, and closing.

  Below Nate lay a steep, barren slope littered with small boulders and loose gravel. He couldn’t go that way. The footing would be too treacherous and there was no cover. No, he had to reach the end of the cliff, and do it quickly. Whipping the paint with the reins and pumping his legs, he galloped along until the barrier was abruptly replaced by the narrow mouth of a canyon.

  Nate didn’t like the notion of entering, but he had no choice. The Crows were much nearer, the slope below still open. Stones clattering under the paint’s hoofs, Nate wound into the depths of the canyon. High walls shaded him
from the sun. Occasionally he saw massive boulders perched on the rims, and hoped they wouldn’t come crashing down on top of him.

  One thing was encouraging. Nate found dozens of animal tracks, proof wildlife passed through on a regular basis. There must be a way out, he figured.

  The canyon floor climbed. Nate looked back often but as yet couldn’t see the Crows. The dust now hung in the canyon so they had to be close. He wished he had a weapon, any weapon. The warriors had stripped him of everything, including his possibles bag. Making a fire would be no problem since he could do without his flint and steel, but bagging game would be a challenge. To say nothing of defending himself if the Crows caught him.

  The walls became shorter the higher Nate ascended. Soon he could hear the echoes of hoof beats from below. He came to a wide shelf where a waist-high boulder sat near the edge, and drew rein. Swinging off, he ran to the boulder and knelt. It appeared to weigh upwards of two hundred pounds, only a bit more than he did. Bracing himself, Nate pushed and moved it a few inches. It was much heavier than he has estimated, more like three hundred. Digging in his moccasins, he tried again, his muscles quivering as he strained to his utmost. Slowly the boulder slid, inch by laborious inch, to the edge of the shelf.

  Suddenly the Crows rode into view, a lanky warrior at the forefront scouring the ground, reading his tracks. Nate braced both feet, wedged his fingers as far under the boulder as they would go, and heaved. With a resounding thud the boulder flipped onto the incline and rolled downward, gaining momentum as it went.

  The Crows heard and glanced up. Instantly they wheeled and fled, trying to reach the first bend before the boulder brought one of them low. All but one gained safety. The last man was mere yards from the turn when the heavy projectile rammed into the back of his horse and the animal spilled earthward, dumping the Crow.

  Nate didn’t wait to see the result. He had bought himself a few minutes, at most, and he meant to take advantage of them. Rising, he whirled, and his heart missed a beat. For the crash of the boulder had sent the paint fleeing on up the canyon. He was afoot, unarmed, and hemmed in by the canyon walls. In short, he was as good as dead!

  Chapter Five

  Nate King rose and sprinted after the paint. He went twenty yards before it sank in that he’d need the speed of an antelope to catch the fleeing horse. Giving up, he turned and ran to the rim of the shelf. The Crows were gathered around their fallen fellow, tending his broken, bloody body.

  Moving back so they wouldn’t spot him, Nate cast about for a means out of his predicament. The rock walls were too sheer and smooth to scale. Nor were there any large boulders to hide behind. Once the warriors swept over the rim, he wouldn’t last five seconds.

  Then Nate’s gaze drifted to the bottom of the wall to his right and a spark of hope was kindled in his breast. Carved out of the rock by the wear and tear of erosion over countless years was a niche approximately five feet in length and three feet wide. Nate dashed over and hunkered down for a closer look. There was barely enough room for him if he contorted himself just right.

  Harsh yells heralded the oncoming Crows. Nate dropped onto his right side with his back to the opening and scooted into the niche, wriggling to squeeze his wide shoulders under the upper lip. Rough stone scraped his skin, gouging flesh. He put both hands flat and squirmed and shoved until his buttocks touched.

  Nate could only hope that none of the Crows looked down as they streaked past or they might catch a glimpse of him. The hammering of hoofs peeled off the walls. He swore the ground under him shook when the leading riders rushed into sight. From where Nate lay, all he could see were the legs of horses, yet he dared not peek out. He’d be wholly at their mercy if they found him.

  At a full gallop the war party sped on up the canyon. Only when the last warrior had disappeared did Nate crawl out and stand. Now he had to reach the canyon mouth before the Crows overtook the paint and discovered they had been duped.

  Breaking into a run, Nate went down the incline. The warrior thrown by the horse was sprawled in a spreading pool of blood that seeped from a nasty gash in his chest. The cause of death, however, had been a broken neck. The man’s head was bent at an unnatural angle, his tongue sticking between his parted teeth.

  Nate was more interested in the warrior’s weapons. In their haste to overtake him, the rest had ridden off without stripping the dead brave’s knife and tomahawk. Both Nate hurriedly appropriated. Then he rose and ran to the bend. He doubted that he’d be able to reach the mouth before the Crows returned, but he wasn’t about to give up so long as breath remained in his body.

  Nate raced around the bend, and had to leap to the right to avoid colliding with the dead brave’s mount. The horse stood with head low, more shaken than battered by its fall. Bleeding cuts marred its legs and flanks, and its hind end had been bashed badly by the boulder. Otherwise, it appeared fine. There were no broken bones that Nate could find, so, seizing the reins, he vaulted astride the dazed animal and prodded it down the canyon at a canter.

  Nate didn’t look back until he was almost out. Reining up, he twisted and spied the Crows on a ridge adjacent to the canyon. They had seen him and were waving their lances and bows in impotent rage. To rub a pinch of salt into their wounded pride, he smiled and waved as if bidding close friends so long. Then he trotted to the open slope and descended to verdant woodland. His prospects were looking up. He had a horse and two weapons. And unless the Crows were as good at tracking as Apaches, he would soon give them the slip.

  To that end, Nate spent the time until sunset riding a zigzag pattern through the thickest brush and over the hardest ground he could find. Periodically he dismounted and used small branches to wipe out his tracks, then sprinkled leaves and bits of grass on the marks the branches made.

  As the sun set in the west, Nate halted beside a ribbon of a creek. He allowed the weary horse to drink, tied it to a brush, and climbed a nearby tall pine. From eight feet above the ground he enjoyed a panoramic view of the countryside. Nowhere were there any Crows.

  Safe at last, Nate collected two old bird nests on the way down and used them as kindling for his small fire. He had to go without food, but a grumbling stomach seemed such a paltry problem after the ordeal he had just been through. He only hoped his mentor and the greenhorn were faring half as well.

  At that very moment, Shakespeare McNair lay on his left side near a crackling fire, his arms and legs tied tight. He shifted a few inches to glance at the man from Maine, and remarked, “Why so downcast, my young friend? You’re still alive, and where there’s life, there’s hope.”

  Tim Curry had been staring sadly at the dancing flames. He looked at the mountain man and said bitterly, “Please, McNair. There’s no need for you to treat me like a child. I might be new to these mountains, but I’m not an idiot. I know we’ll be killed as soon as we reach the Crow village.”

  Shakespeare made a clucking sound, then quoted, “He does nothing but frown. As who should say, ‘if you will not have me, choose.’ He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth.”

  “How can you prattle on so?” Tim snapped. “Your silly words do nothing but make me feel worse than I already do.”

  “It’s human nature, son, to be as happy as we make up our minds to be.”

  Tim snorted. “No sane man could be happy at a time like this. We’re staring death in the face and you want to make merry!” He shook his head in disgust. “My parents were right. I never should have left Maine.”

  Shakespeare saw no point in trying to cheer the greenhorn. He arched his back so he could see the Crows, who were clustered together across the fire. They were a quiet, gloomy bunch, no doubt because of the death of the warrior killed by Nate. The body had been brought back and draped in blankets, and now lay over by the trees, as far from the horses as possible.

  Just then Whirlwind Hawk rose and walked over. “I have decided we
will all go on to our village tomorrow instead of spending more time searching for your friend. Invincible One can send warriors to look for him, if he chooses.”

  “You will never find Grizzly Killer,” Shakespeare predicted. “He is not about to let himself be caught a second time. He seldom makes the same mistake twice.”

  “We will see.” Whirlwind Hawk squatted. “Your friend is very clever. I will admit that much. It took great skill to elude Stalking Fox and the others.”

  Shakespeare rolled onto his back so he could look at the warrior without having to bend his neck. “Even as we speak, Grizzly Killer is on his way to the camp of the Blanket Chief. Every trapper in the region will be after you before too long. You would be wise to let us go before there is more bloodshed.”

  “Let them come. Invincible One fears no man, not even the Blanket Chief.”

  “This chief of yours must be very brave.”

  “His medicine is the greatest of all. No one can kill him.”

  McNair wasn’t sure if he had heard correctly. “Everyone dies.”

  “Not him,” Whirlwind Hawk repeated. “When he first came among us, some doubted. He agreed to be tested, and let men stab him and shoot him with arrows and guns. One even tried to pierce him with a lance. Nothing hurt him. So he was named the Invincible One because his body is as hard as iron.”

  “How can any man have a body made of iron?” Shakespeare responded skeptically.

  “I did not say it is made of iron,” the Crow corrected him. “It is like iron.”